(And, yes, I am an abuser of helpless toys. Kermit will doubtlessly require years of therapy to recover from the damage of being coerced into prancing about as a skank ho-phibian. Again, no apologies.)

And. Am hungover. Last night was TO mommyblogger debauchery, and all that buffing and vodka tonic slurping knocked me (already struggling with a cold) on my ass. It was all that I could do today to lift a hungover finger to upload exploitative pictures of my child and her amphibian dance companion.

Mom-101 - You've just answered the question (pressing on my brain all week) of what one wears to meet Gloria Steinem.

Roo - I totally thought of you the whole time I was doing this (what would Roo think? Will Roo approve?) There was definitely Roo-spiration at play!

All - any of you get pasties on a cat or a man or some other unsuspecting or reluctant party and provide me with photographic evidence or Kegel-straining graphic description and you'll earn my undying respect and admiration and a customized command performance from the INEBG Dancers!

Do you think you could get a group therapy discount for the frog and Wonderbaby?

WB - "Yes, doctor, when I was just a wee babe my mother dressed me up like a chicken (duck?) and forced me to wear pasties. The frog had to wear them too. Now I have a deep love for poultry and burlesque. Ooh, and frog's legs. They taste like poultry."Frog - "Hey! So that was you nibbling on my ankles when I was sleeping. You said it was the cat."